The Grasping of Memories
by Khyron-Prime
Summary: In a city without memory, the price of Memories is high. Anything with the past fetches a high price, thieves extort into a black market of antiquities. When one thief finds himself enchanted by his catch, he realises exactly how wonderful memories can be


THE GRASPING OF MEMORIES This piece has an interesting story behind it: A night where I couldn't find inspiration, I popped in my BIG O OST1 CD and simply listened. As the tracks played, I wrote this story. However, I absolutely hate writing with ANY background noise, but the words flowed out from me. The result is a story in which I wrote one paragraph at a time, with each paragraph having a different track as its inspiration. I think that it came out nicely, but if it seems helter-skelter to you, then...well...you know why. -  
The old man stepped out into the city's dirty streets--streets that he once knew, but now had to relearn. However, his guise of ragged clothes did nothing to hide from others the fact that he had no care for such knowledge, and so, he turned into the street, not caring whether he travelled left or right, and chose right.  
  
His feet carried him past the piles of homeless citizens just like himself. The mood was far from somber, as each and every one of the people there knew where they were, and chosen to continue their lives under the spectre of a past of which they had no recollection. A dark-haired man in a full-length coat stirred on the ground, casually nodding to the man as he passed. Nobody really knew each other anymore because nobody really cared to know each other, but still, defeatism's contagia has the advantage of bringing people together in drunken fits. The man raised his hand in a half-wave and trekked onward, avoiding living obstacles on the sidewalk.  
  
There wasn't anything he hadn't seen, but the sound of shattering glass brought his eyes from the ground. On the other side of the street, two, no, three men leapt from the ground-floor window of the "Modern Memories" antique shop--a popular spot for the ignorant wealthy, as its deceitful name marked it. The place sold antiques of memory only less than forty years old; everything inside was of the creation of the Paradigm City that everyone could remember, but many of its rich patrons didn't know that...and neither did the thugs who were now sprinting their getaway with backpacks full of 'memories.'  
  
They rounded their way into an alley, escaping the shouts from the distraught proprietor, who, in his haste, had failed to phone the military police for assistance. Ducked over and breathing heavily, the sandy-blonde haired leader of the group fixed his glasses before he whipped the bag from his back. The others did the same, pulling out goods of all varieties and often, caressing them as if a newborn child.  
  
The items bore no marks of a creation dating, and there was no doubt in the thieves' minds as to their value.--"On the upper tiers, this here could fetch a cool thousand," one commented. However, the intellectual man with them had his eyes locked upon a single item; his eyes moved from side to side, inspecting the painting on the outer edges of its cylindrical shape.  
  
"Wonderful," he dreamily announced. And without attempt, his moving wrist flicked open the top-half of the piece, revealing a figurine inside. The others gathered in awe as its memory became apparent: No larger than a finger, an elegant girl spun in the spot as a chiming tune played itself. Not such a beauty had been in their memories, but in the times before, they wondered...  
  
Suddenly, their dream was broken by the distant cries of military police sirens. Gathering their loot, the men again continued their escape, unknowing that the goods they carried were of no real value...  
  
Except for the music box, which, by some fortune, was the only real memory that the antique shop ever contained.  
-  
Dashing in and out of street and corner, the thieves steadily found themselves with less choices in direction. Streets were blocked by police cars, and now, the men in the brown jackets were personally dispersing on foot--and they had pistols. Apparently, the old homeless man thought, even the Paradigm Corporation was stupid enough to believe that what the criminals got away with were genuine memories. Above the city, in his office, Alex Rosewater knew this, but he had allowed the 'Modern Memories' shop to continue operation without the Paradigm Corporation's interference for the public good: "If the people believe that we are controlling all of the sources of memories in this city, they will revolt," he told his secretary. "By allowing them the peace-of-mind in believing that they, too, can reclaim their pasts, we can continue to operate as sole leaders of this city."  
  
"That's awfully nice of you, Mr. Rosewater," a voice called from behind his view of the cityscape. "A real humanitarian, I'll give you that," the man ended in a cackle, his yellow-clad body nearly doubling over.  
  
Rosewater half-turned his attention to his guest: "I don't appreciate your sarcasm, Mr. Beck. I am doing for these people what no other person in Paradigm can do."  
  
"And that is...what?" Beck retorted with a blow of cigarette smoke from his nostrils.  
  
"Mr. Beck--I give these people a chance to create a future."  
-  
"Freeze!"  
"Hold it right there!"  
  
The thieves found themselves caught in an alley, a police pincer attack marking their heads with bulls-eyes. They sweated under the view, as the foot-travelling police were joined by blockading automobiles--the weight of their catch didn't help, either. Their movements were halted, and their crouched positions became preparations for execution, their eyes shutting...  
  
Slowly, the police on-hand made their way inward, and pistol barrels pressed the craniums of three small-time crooks who had forgotten everything of their pasts.  
  
"Let go of those memories!" one MP shouted. Another kicked one of the men in his ribs, the blow never even seen, but the echoing groan heard.  
  
A gun to his head and his cohort writhing in pain, the leader of the group pondered over the situation. They were done for; all the money that they could have got was never gonna arrive; the lovely gem that he had found was a dream; now Paradigm was gonna take the memories and...  
  
"I'll blow you all to smithereens!"  
  
The police hopped back. The man leapt to his feet. Their astonished looks to his left hand, which held a strange cylindrical object. He panted as he spoke, a fire in his eyes:  
  
"Arrest me if you will, but in my hand, I hold the object of your destruction!" His voice cackled at the overly-evil tone he had forced. "This little trinket is a bomb--a bomb of my genius creation!"  
  
The gasps from the police held.  
  
Suddenly, the act was getting to be fun. "Uh...yeah! If you should remove my hand's signature from this uh, bomb, the explosives inside will detonate, leaving a crater with your ashes in it!"  
  
The aggression of disbelieving police officers was interrupted by the interjection of a rank-officer on the scene. His call of "Hold it!" stopped more than one officer's charge toward the leader, as they turned to his order. "We can't risk destroying the city!" he called. "Handcuff them--all of them! And take 'em in, but DON'T LET HIM LET GO OF THAT BOMB!"  
  
The boys in brown took the men into custody--carefully--with the commanding officer nearby. "We need these memories," he told nobody in particular, and as he sifted through the bags, found his eyes going through many objects that he himself remembered as a childhood memory.  
-  
The walk into the police station was met with silence. The captain had already informed the staff-on-duty of their coming visitor, and, needless to say, the men there were quite nervous about storing a live grenade in their holding cell--not more than ten feet an one wall from most of their desks.  
  
The other men received less-than-welcoming treatments from their guards--even though they were policemen, they too, had desires to know of their pasts, and any men who worked to jeopardise the availability of those were certainly worthy of the title 'criminal' in their books.  
  
Clad in prison uniform, the young, blonde-haired leader was softly pressed forward to his cell. It was an odd sight--the police were forced to issue him a garb four sizes too large for his body so that the 'bomb' could be held as his arm went through the sleeve. His grin wasn't the one of sadistic glee he showed in the alleyway, and he sat down on the bench, alone in his solitary cell.  
  
The guard hesitantly closed the steel bars. "Just, uh...Be careful, alright?" the man stuttered. "We're not gonna hurt you, man..."  
  
The new prisoner faked his homocidal smile for a moment. "Good! 'Cause if I'm even ticked-off a little bit...KA-BLOOIE!" This outburst startled the guard, for the prisoner threw his hand into the air with the action, and he made haste to move away from the cell.  
  
Alone with his beautiful 'bomb', the insane smile became one of job as he gazed over every inch of the musical box. He enjoyed it so much--suddenly, through dumb action, he could not be separated from this wonderful memory...ever.  
  
Funny how this small object possessed so much power, meaning one thing to the peole of all Paradigm City, and its importance to a single man bearing the same weight--an object of great value to both. 


End file.
